Anonymous Epics: Unsung Tales of the FF6 Nameless
by TLOZLink5
Summary: Sorta what the title says. This is my first multichapter fic of any consquence, a collection of shorts about various characters playable or non in the world of Final Fantasy 6. SECOND CHAPTER UP, AFTER THREE YEARS!
1. Introduction

Introduction:  
  
Heylo, you various, scattered individuals who actually read my fics! TLOZ here, introducing my first multichapter story, once again about -- you guessed it -- Final Fantasy VI. Involving a collection of short stories about each of the cities and/or other populated areas of FF6 (I hope that sounds like an interesting concept, but then again I modified the idea from Themis56's "Hearthstone Tales" fic, which as of this first upload is still in progress), each chapter will revolve around a certain character, who may or may not be original. Doesn't that sound so interesting?!?  
  
::crickets chirping::  
  
Right, then...  
  
Anywho, I promise you that this anthology will bear the same qualities as all my other wonderful fics do. In case you've forgotten, they are:  
  
1) No excessive or suggestive scenes of excessive nudity, if any nudity at all.  
  
2) Partially accurate spelling and grammar, which is hard to come by in today's fics.  
  
3) No switching of tenses in mid-story, whatsoever.  
  
4) Use of the apostrophe only in possessives and contractions, and NOT with plurals and present tense. Why can't people realize that YOU DON'T USE A FRIGGIN' APOSTROPHE IN A PLURAL?  
  
5) No necrophelia, Mary Sues, yaoi/yuri, twincest, tentacles (aside from Ultros'), S&M, or kinky fetish scenes involving Levi's and/or leather.  
  
6) No references to pre-pubescent boy bands who sound like girls and look like they're twelve years old, yet whom all the girls are wild about because they have no taste and maintain far-fetched delusions of marrying members of said groups.  
  
7) No out-of-character personifications or forced/oddly-placed cuss words that were just written for the hell of it.  
  
8) ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH HARRY POTTER. HALLELUJAH!  
  
::notices that three-quarters of my fanbase has completely eroded as a result of the broadcast of these qualities:: Okay, then. Now that we've weeded out those who aren't truly faithful, let's get on with the show!  
  
Universal Disclaimer: All characters that appear both in these fics and in FF6 are property of Square. All characters that appear in FF6 and not in this fic are property of Square. All characters that appear in this fic and not in FF6 are propety of me. All characters that neither appear in this fic nor FF6 are...someone else's property. . 


	2. The Last Sentry of Doma

Tradition, Honor, and Bushido:  
The Last Days of Doma

Background Information: Doma is a feudal/agricultural kingdom centered on the western edge of an island situated upon the powerful currents of the Serpent Trench. Although smaller towns and villages dot the landscape of this farming nation, its main center of commerce and culture is Doma Castle, a mammoth citadel constructed over a river delta which empties into the Great Sea. Centuries ago, the Domans realized their potential to capitalize on the trade routes that flowed along the Serpent Trench; and laid the foundations of Doma Castle as a way station for merchant ships. Stressing a harmonious blend of both interior and exterior, the walls of the giant citadel were built around and above the branches of the river delta as opposed to on top of them, allowing the pristine waters to flow directly through the central courtyards uninterrupted.

Growing wealthy on the taxes collected from these traders, Doma fashioned a powerful military, dominated by a prestigious conclave of Samurai who served the king with unwavering fealty and honor. Content in the progress of their nation, the Domans eventually settled into a period of neutrality and isolationism, eventually falling behind as enterprising kingdoms such as Figaro, Nikeah, and Vector rose to challenge their stagnating power.

In recent times Doma lags, both technologically and militarily, behind Figaro and Vector, the latter of which revived the ancient power of magic and conquered the whole of the Southern Continent, having the audacity to declare itself an Empire. Doma LXVI, the new, ambitious young king, has undergone a rigorous modernization effort, hiring groups with ties to the Returners -- an anti-Imperial guerrilla faction -- to overhaul the conventional army and build canals and railways across the kingdom; all the while sharing information with the resistance group and keeping tabs on Imperial expansion on the Northern Continent. The Empire of Vector learned of these transactions, and as of now has invaded the kingdom of Doma in retaliation.

When the siege encroached upon the suburbs of Doma Castle, most of the citadel's civilian residents fled in ships for safety in Nikeah, South Figaro or Mobliz, leaving the core of the Doman army behind with those few noncombatants who pledged to stay. Although the Imperials expected a quick victory, the tenacity of the Doman army has stymied them, and Doma's Samurai continue to serve with a bravery and skill unmatched anywhere else in the known world.

Dawn greeted the east wall of Doma Castle in the same manner it had for the past five centuries of the citadel's existence -- gradually and welcoming. The rosy light of daybreak eased its way up the lofty battlement, staining the gray walls with the cheerful hue of early morning as it pierced through the crenelations of the wall's summit and filled the central court with sparkling sunlight. Gradually, the few thousand men, women and children who still inhabited the castle rose and greeted the day like they had for the past five centuries, breaking the night's fast and preparing to go about their daily routines.

Appearances can always be deceiving, however. The residents of Doma Castle went on with their lives despite the looming threat which lurked beyond the walls of their domain: the kingdom was at war with a powerful enemy, and the outcome was excruciatingly uncertain. The Empire of Vector's First Army, under the command of General Leo Christophe, had carried on a siege for the past two months with no signs of relenting. The possibility of defeat loomed ever closer; yet the Domans mustered the courage to continue their routines with impunity, trying to forget the danger which grew ever-nearer on the horizon.

Bernard Rouquier, a Doman sentry, leaned against the parapet of Doma Castle's south wall, scanning the main Imperial siege camp which stood ten kilometers away. Black-haired and blue-eyed, Rouquier was tall and well-built for his age of twenty-five. He observed the wide sweep of the horizon which afforded a captivating view of the surrounding countryside, from the yellowish, arid plains where the Imperial base sprawled, along the picturesque green grasslands dotted with peaceful, picturesque hamlets and towns -- most of which had been occupied by the Empire -- extending south, along the azure stretch of an inland fjord toward the verdant canopy of the Phantom Forest.

'It's so hard to appreciate this view, considering what we're going through,' he thought to himself, drifting into a reverie as he watched the scenery. 'You can almost forget the war when seeing something like this.'

Yet a new color scheme introduced itself just then, making Bernard snap his attention back to the base -- where a long column of brown was slowly making its way toward the castle. An Imperial detachment. A big one. At the pace they were going, it would arrive at the gates very soon.

Way too soon. Instinct took control of Rouquier's senses as he ran along the crenelated catwalk, making his way to the signal bell near the grain silo. Grabbing the cord, he gave a firm tug, and the resounding peal of the bell announced the situation to the residents and soldiers of the citadel.

"Emergency!" he cried, the message relayed along the walls by various sentries. "The Imperials are attacking!"

"How many?" came the reply from the guards near the throne room, relayed in reverse along the same chain of sentries.

"I estimate over a thousand," Takano replied. "It's their largest assault team yet!"

"How long until they arrive?"

"I would guess in five hours."

A routine that had been conducted many times before took hold of the citizens of Doma. As noncombatants were ushered back into their quarters, the soldiers took up arms. The sentries readied projectile weapons to fire upon the Imperials from their elevated position, while the Samurai recited their oaths of honor before battle. Bernard took up both katana and rifle as he hurried down to the guardhouse near the gate; should the Imperials break through, he and the guard in the opposite structure would be the first line of defense as a final stand against the invaders.

The hour passed silently after the initial preparations were completed. Sentry Rouquier steadied his rifle and poked it out of the targeting window, ingeniously tapered toward the outer wall so that the guards could swivel their weapons back and forth to maximize their target range. He tensed up as the Imperials reached the outside of the citadel -- hundreds strong, thankfully with no MagiTek armor for support; intelligence reported that the armored division was being repaired -- and readied for their assault. Their commander, clad in black armor as opposed to the dirty brown of the regulars, shouted out his orders as his team divided into different groups: sappers to attempt to undermine the walls, scalers to climb the walls and engage in combat with the sentries, and support teams. "Go! Attack!" the enemy commander yelled, settling back as his army did their duty. Now all he needed to do was watch and wait for his great victory.

Bernard had already loaded his gun at this point; he got a bead on the first trooper to come within fifty feet of the wall and fired. The target was blown back from the sheer force of the shot, and lay still on the grass, supposedly dead. "Scratch one brownie," Rouquier muttered to himself, grinning. He was about to set his sights on another trooper when, 'What on earth?' The soldier he had shot first had just gotten back on his feet. Kensuke strained his eyes to check the fellow; there was no wound, mostly due to the fact that his target's breastplate was merely dented, not penetrated!

'Curses!' Rouquier screamed mentally. The soldiers' armor was enchanted; not even gunpowder could pierce it. Trying to shake the thought, the Sentry fired again and again into the advancing army, but to no avail. Bullets were either deflected or, when they actually hit, barely did any damage. His ammunition -- and his temper -- spent, Bernard threw down his rifle in disgust and ran out into the Great Hall. His commanding officer, Major Aleksei Mironov, waited there, lines of concern etched on his face as he noticed Kensuke running toward him.

"Sergeant Rouquier?" he inquired, the fear and worry in his eyes mirroring that of the soldier before him.

"I'm afraid it's of no use, Major," Bernard panted. "Their body armor must have a barrier cast upon it. We could do no damage to them. And they're still coming."

"I see," replied Mironov, his eyes expressing acceptance of defeat now, instead of worry. "So it's finally happening. Doma will soon be overrun."

"We should inform His Majesty about these developments," continued Bernard.

"Agreed. We need to discuss conditions for surrender."

Major Mironov had already turned on his heel to make his way to the throne room; Bernard was following right behind him when they both heard the click of the door of a nearby barracks quarters open.

"A moment, Sirs!" rang out a cheerful voice from said door, as its owner stepped into plain view. The man in question was tall and regal-looking, his black mustache neatly trimmed and his hair tied back in an elegant ponytail. He was old, yet his spry, powerfully muscular body did not betray his fifty-seven years of life, thirty of which were spent in service to his kingdom. Clad in supple yet durable steel armor -- the skill of Doman smithies was renowned throughout the world -- and bearing an elegant katana in an ornate scabbard, Sir Cyan Garamonde, leader of the Samurai and retainer to the liege of Doma, stepped forward in a symbolic gesture of offering his services in this time of need. "Allow me the honor!"

"Sir Cyan!" Bernard exclaimed with relief. "Thank the gods you're here! The Imperials have attacked, and are -- " he was silenced with a meaningful gesture from Cyan.

"No need to explain the parameters of our situation, Sergeant Rouquier. I am aware of the dire circumstances that we are involved in; and I have devised a stratagem to remedy our troubles."

"By all means, Sir," replied Mironov. "What do you propose?"

Cyan gave both of the younger men before him a look, implying that he would need their help in his brilliant plan. "I shall require the assistance of ye two in executing this proposal. While ye occupy the attentions of his guard, I shall smite the foul commander of this assault. Surely they will flee without strong leadership; behead the serpent, and the body shall die."

Both men nodded in unison, agreeing that the plan might surely work.

"Hai! Let us give it a try, then," affirmed the wizened knight.

He then led the two younger men out towards the main gate, where the Imperial troopers were still distracted with attacking the outer walls. The giant steel doors burst open; Cyan emerged first, with both Bernard and Aleksei flanking him on either side. And there, across from them, was the commander, dark and brooding in his black armor, standing in the open, observing the progress of his own troops. Taking advantage of his distraction, Bernard and Aleksei rushed past the commander, making ready to engage in his own honor guard, who stood off to his sides.

"Sir Cyan! Let their commander have it NOW!" Bernard called over his shoulder as he unsheathed his katana. His selected opponent was big and beefy, his brown armor doing little to conceal his massive frame. Yet where the Imperial was immensely stronger, Bernard was quicker and more agile. He would have to employ these traits to offset his opponent's greater power.

The former combatant swung first with his larger broadsword, in a quick diagonal slash that would have cut Bernard from left shoulder to right hip if he hadn't reacted. Bernard brought his katana up and over his shoulder with both hands, pointing the tip down for better leverage, and easily blocked the blow. The shock of impact sent spasms of pain through both his arms, yet he ignored the sensation and, while his opponent backpedaled from the reaction to the first attack, slashed diagonally with his right hand. The counterattack drew a long gash along the Imperial's left arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the wounded man; who in turn, once he regained composure, unholstered an odd pistol at his side. Bernard could feel a tainted aura of ancient power radiating from the sidearm; sensing it to be a MagiTek weapon, he tensed up in preparation for the attack, beginning to build up power of his own for one of the sword techniques that the Doman soldiers were most famous for. He relaxed, let his chi build strength within him...waited for the attack...

There it was...a burst of lightning shot from the Imperial Bolt gun and struck Bernard, yet he merely absorbed the attack, tried to draw as much of its power within him, adding it to his own accumulating power. Immediately he was prepared, releasing his chi and feeling its superhuman effects radiate throughout him.

"SORA!" A flash of a blue aura emanated from Bernard's person as he leaped toward the Imperial, blade slashing down as fast as a swallow in an attack so gracefully executed -- but at the same time so fast -- that it seemed to take place in slow motion. Bernard leaped back just as soon as he had first leaped forward, watching his opponent simply stand there...then as a large section of his upper body, along a diagonal axis from his right shoulder to his left hip, simply slid off his lower body and dropped, lifeless, into the grass.

Bernard didn't bother to wipe his bloody blade off; he simply sheathed it. Mironov had already defeated his opponent, who had joined his partner on the ground. Cyan, however, was still engaged in battle with the black-garbed commander, the two pussy-footing around each other, each contemplating their next move.

"Should we help him?" Bernard inquired of the major.

"Just watch," Mironov replied. "He's got it under control."

No sooner had the latter man spoke before Cyan began to emanate the same blue aura as Kensuke had a moment before, only much brighter and more radiant. The Samurai retainer lunged forward with a shout of "SHARIN!", moving with such swiftness that he seemed almost a navy blur whirling around the commander, pausing momentarily four times -- quite likely to attack -- before standing still once more. The commander, bleeding from four deep, quite visible wounds on his chest, neck, and torso, simply dropped face-forward to the ground, heaving a last gasp of breath before lying motionless, in a pool of his own blood that had already began to radiate from his body.

"The commander's been defeated! Run!" came the outcry from the Imperial troops; realizing that their officer had fallen, they did exactly what Cyan predicted they would do -- turn tail and run away -- leaving Cyan, Major Mironov, and Bernard alone outside the looming walls of Doma.

Cheers erupted from the catwalks along the outer wall as the Doman sentries, witnesses to the spectacular victory, applauded in gratitude and relief; while Cyan, grinning from ear to ear, walked over to Bernard and Mironov with a nod of approval.

"Thine efforts were valiant and successful, men. I am proud of ye both." He turned to Kensuke. "Sergeant Rouquier, I am truly impressed with thy progress. Thy training doth reveal its benefits, aye?"

Blushing slightly, Bernard nodded. "Indeed, Sir Cyan; although I must confess to you that I intended it only as an attempt at the technique. I didn't know that I had that power within me."

"Fie! In mine experience, lad, there doth not exist such a thing as an attempt. Ye either do or ye do not. And thou hast performed honorably and acceptably under the pressure of your engagements." Cyan Garamonde's cheerful face then assumed a serious expression. "Pray you, men, listen to me. This victory today will most likely determine the outcome of the war itself. With their commander gone, surely it shall take time before General Christophe recruits a new officer to lead his men. Meanwhile, we have all the supplies we need" -- he jerked his thumb back towards the castle -- "to last for years at a time, back there. We can wait out the enemy, cut off their supplies through a blockade, and defeat them eventually."

"So Doma will win?" asked Mironov hopefully.

"Forsooth, it would still require that we play our cards right and select our engagements with care and reserve. But I truly feel optimistic about the eventual outcome."

Nodding toward each other in a mutual display of admiration and respect, the three men walked back toward the castle, content in the results of the day's skirmish and optimistic about their kingdom's future.

Even a few hours later, the Imperial threat still loomed as foreboding as ever; and precautions still needed to be taken into consideration until an end to the war was truly confirmed.

Bernard Rouquier stood upon the main watchtower of Doma Castle, an imposing rampart over 100 meters high -- the tallest structure in Doma -- which afforded a view of the surrounding area for miles around. He found himself once again watching the Imperial siege camp, which still showed no signs of being dismantled or abandoned.

If anything, it was more active than ever: soldiers were bustling everywhere, judging from the dust that, having been kicked up, was hanging like a dingy halo around the confines of the base.

"Sir Garamonde," he called to his left, alerting the Samurai of the goings-on. "I think you'd better take a look at this."

"Be there any update, Sergeant?" inquired Cyan. "What is the trouble?"

"The Imperial base is swarming with all sorts of activity. Something big must be going on."

Cyan turned in the direction of Bernard's outstretched arm, which pointed in the direction of the Imperial base. He strained his eyes to monitor the activity, even bringing his hand above his eyebrows to shield his vision from the glare of the beating sun. It was a hot day that day, and the serving-girls had been rushing from place to place throughout the citadel, delivering fresh-drawn water to the parched troops. Bernard made a mental note to call for a drink himself, once his guard shift was over.

"That's strange," Cyan's voice brought his mind back to the parapet, and his eyes back to the river which flowed through the Imperial camp directly to Doma Castle. "The water looks very peculiar today."

Bernard brought his attention to the color of the river. Yes, it did look pretty odd. Instead of being a translucent bluish color, it was an opaque, and very unnatural, purple. Why was that so?

That question was soon answered in an extremely horrible way, as hundreds of screams -- of agony, of asphyxiation, of futile gasps of air -- pervaded the confines of the castle, emanating from residents, soldiers, and Samurai alike. Sentries all along the catwalks, within plain view of Bernard and Cyan, began clutching their chests -- or their throats or stomachs -- and simply keeling over. Still others thrashed around weakly in some of the most hideous displays of agony that Kensuke had ever witnessed -- one poor fellow, in his desperation, had simply flung himself into the river that ran through the compound.

"Poison," Cyan muttered out loud in disbelief, so that Bernard and the other sentries on the parapet could hear his grim deduction. "They poisoned our water!"

The resulting reactions of the other soldiers on the tower were loud, graphic, and quite vocal.

"What lowdown, contemptible scumbags!"

"General Christophee would never do something this hideous!"

"Oh Gods, no..." Bernard moaned, sinking to the ground in grief and fear, having no reservations or shame about his public display of cowardice in front of a Samurai. Those were his friends that were dying down there, people he had known his whole life...how else could he react?

And then an even more chilling revelation gripped him, nearly freezing his heart as he realized who might also be a victim...

"The King!" he cried out, jumping to his feet with a renewed vigor. "We must guard our liege!"

He looked around the tower, noticing so many heads nodding in assent, before realizing that Cyan was gone. He had already disappeared down the stairs toward the throne room.

Bernard darted straight toward the staircase, nearly tripping over the threshold as he barreled through the door. He took the steps down three at a time, turning on a dime at the landings and not stopping until he reached the Great Hall. The throne room was to the left...the door was already open...Bernard timidly walked in, prepared for the truth which lay beyond the ornately-carved portal, yet trying to deny the obvious all the same.

The King was, indeed, dead. He lay face-down on the steps of the dais that displayed his throne, Cyan Garamonde, his faithful retainer, kneeling over him in a prayer of last rites. By the sweat still soaking his hair, Bernard deduced that the king must have died just then. Cyan's back was to the door; he probably didn't notice Bernard enter. Ignoring the presence of the surviving soldiers still clustered behind him, he approached Cyan timidly, reaching forward with a trembling hand to tap him gently on the shoulder. "Sir Garamonde?"

Cyan turned to face him, and Bernard was shocked to look at him. For the first time Bernard since had ever known the man, Cyan Garamonde actually looked old. His swarthy face was ashen and lined, his eyes staring past the Sentry to some unknown location that he could not discern. His appearance was devoid of that haughty confidence, and replaced by a feeling of emptiness, of despair.

Harsh as it was to do so, Bernard needed to snap him out of it. There were other, more tangible problems to address -- or else they'd end up like their fallen Liege all the same. "Sir Garamonde, we need to search the castle. There might be some more survivors other than us here; we have to check before the Imperials arrive to occupy the place."

Cyan nodded once to Bernard, then to each of the ten men -- Mironov among them -- arrayed behind him. "We must investigate the environs before we make plans to flee."

And so began a desperate search of Doma Castle, top to bottom, trying to find anyone who might have survived the poisoning. A few scores of civilians had lived, and were picked up after Bernard searched the private residences; one or two lingering soldiers on the catwalks; and a chapter of eight monks and nuns in the cloisters of the castle monastery -- even the holy water in the chapel's baptismal fonts had turned purple, Bernard noted with disgust.

Otherwise, the general consensus was clear: the kingdom of Doma was through. With a bare few dozen soldiers and one Samurai, its once-grand army had been decimated. Those who had fled before the Imperial siege began to tighten were now scattered all over the world. Bernard thanked the gods that his family had fled Doma before this atrocity occurred.

That was when he realized that Cyan did not have that luxury.

In a show of solidarity with the soldiers -- and, more specifically, with Sir Garamonde himself -- Elayne and Owain Garamonde, Cyan's wife and young son, had pledged to stay behind when the call for the evacuation first came. There was no real doubt in Bernard's mind that they, too, had fallen victim to the poisoned water; yet, as he rushed in the direction of the Garamonde family's suite, a part of him still clung to the tiny hope that perhaps they had not partaken of the tainted water and lived.

A wail of anguish, which he heard quite plainly from behind Cyan's door just as he reached it, eradicated all doubt about Elaine and Owain's fate.

Bernard stood warily outside the closed entry, wondering what to make of the situation now. To enter would be tantamount to sacrilege; far be it from him to disturb a man in mourning. Yet he couldn't just leave now. He needed orders from Cyan on what to do next.

His contemplations were set aside when the door swung open and Cyan walked out to face him. A new change had overcome the Samurai's countenance now: the man who only half an hour before seemed like a broken and decrepit shadow of a fighter, watching helplessly as his king perished; was replaced by a figure in the same body, yet at the same time embodying the determination and vigor of the strongest of warriors. Cyan Garamonde's jaw was set rigidly, and an aura of conviction blazed in his eyes as he acknowledged Bernard's presence. And what was that he was holding behind his back there...?

"Sergeant Rouquier," he began, with a tone so glassy and neutral that he was almost monotonal in his speech. "There is business that I must attend to at this moment, and I will certainly be away for a long while."

"Business," Bernard noted dryly to himself. Cyan was going to get revenge for the murder of his wife and son, whose lifeless bodies, although out of sight from Bernard's viewpoint, still lay slumped in the gloom of their suite. "I understand, Sir," he answered, nodding.

"Due to the chain of succession under the law of our realm," Cyan pressed, "I am now the king of Doma. However, considering that my...'business'...will interfere with my duties, someone else will need to rule in my place until I return.

"Major Mironov will act as Regent until I return," he continued. "You will answer to him as you would to me, or our departed Liege. Take the royal flagship as your own and sail away from here with the other survivors. Make for Nikeah, Mobliz, Jidoor -- any neutral or unoccupied port that will accept you, and form a government-in-exile there until, if the gods have mercy, we are able to return."

"Yes, Lord Cyan."

"And there is one last thing that I would like to do, before I relinquish my power to Major Mironov," Cyan added, bringing the hand he held behind his back -- and the object held by it -- into plain view.

The sword was a katana blade, of fine craftsmanship like any other Doman sword. The small portion of the blade near the pommel that was not covered by the astylar scabbard proved that it was, indeed, razor-sharp. Most interesting to Bernard, however, was the ornate lettering inlaid into the side of the pommel itself in Doman script. Carved out of jade and set into shallow depressions in the handle, they spelled out the word...

"...Ashura?" Bernard muttered, half to himself, half to Cyan.

"I had been saving that for my son once he became a Samurai himself. Since that is no longer possible, I entrust it to you, Sergeant."

"Congratulations, Samurai Rouquier. Serve well, and make our liege proud of thee."

The black smoke of hundreds of impromptu funeral pyres blackened the sky above the receding visage of Doma Castle, as the pitiful survivors of the poisoning, now watching the occupation on the horizon from the poop deck of Doma's naval flagship, escaped from the doomed citadel. The Imperials had occupied the fortress and were in the process of cleaning up the poison -- so plentiful and potent was the toxin employed that the surrounding countryside was practically a biohazard -- and establishing a garrison within the citadel itself. Now the Imperials would have boundless control over the trade routes which ran by the heart of Doma -- the same trade routes that had been the lifeblood of the kingdom -- taxing the merchants who stopped over with complete impunity and growing even richer with spoils to fund their ever-expanding war machine.

Samurai Bernard Rouquier brooded in his quarters, unable to bear the sight of his beloved homeland being taken over by cruel invaders. He also could not begin to acknowledge that he had fled from that homeland, forsaking honor and a respectable fate to flee like a coward in the hopes of fighting another day.

Yes...fight another day. The Imperials would pay the price for the hideous crime they had committed against the people of Doma, Bernard promised himself that. Even now, reports were coming via telegraph in that Kefka Palazzo -- the infamous clownlike Imperial general with a mean streak from here to Kohlingen -- had ordered the poisoning when General Christophe was mysteriously recalled to Vector. And now, with Mironov as the new regent, the remainder of the army would certainly align themselves with the Returners, offering a broad array of like-minded fighters with the same convictions and objectives -- namely, stop the Imperial drive to conquer the world -- and a fighting chance against a formidable foe.

'Gods willing, we'll be able to defeat the Empire, and take back what we lost this bitter day. But for now, we fight. No matter what happens to me, I'll help ensure that these actions will not go unpunished.'

Bernard took a deep breath at this point, holding it as he silently pledged to see the downfall of the Empire.

'The Empire will live to regret for what they've done to Doma. We'll all make sure of this. Cyan...if I ever see you again, I'll give you my thanks for your selflessness.'

And he exhaled, the promise forever sealed.

FINIS

Author's note:

"Sora" and "Sharin" are Japanese interpretations for the names of two of Cyan's Sword Techs in the Japanese version of FF6. "Sora" means "Sky," which is the Retort tech in the American version; while "Sharin" means "Circle," "Dance," or "Wheel," which is the Quadra Slam tech in the American version.


	3. The Jidoorian Art Collector

center ** Culture Shock: Class Meets Crass **

i b TLOZ's note/b Wow, it's been a while since I've updated, but I'm gonna get right back into the thick of things. So sorry about the delays, if anyone happens to remain loyal to me. But without further ado, here goes.

You'll note how I'll make passing references to tall buildings in Jidoor and other cities as this anthology progresses. With Jidoor, I've imagined it for some time as a very idealistic city of skyscrapers, like New York or Chicago in the earlier half of the 20th century. There's just something very romantic and awesome about architecture in that era, when tall buildings were generally constructed to impress and not to profit. That analogy definitely fits Jidoor, which is definitely the kind of city that flaunts its prosperity. Also, the world of FF6 is definitely representative of our own well into the Industrial Revolution, which began around the 1820s. The technology for elevators existed prior to the American Civil War (Elisha Otis's safety cable demonstration at New York's World's Fair in the 1850s), and the technology for steel-frame skyscrapers not long after the end of conflict (Louis Sullivan's early work in Chicago following the Great Fire of 1871). Remember that Zozo had tall buildings -- but strangely enough, no elevators. Oh well.

Relm retains much of her sass in this story, but you might notice that her language is quite mature -- but not in that_ sense, per se. I consider Relm to be very precocious when she needs to be, and Jidoor provides such a setting. Though I've preserved her brassy disposition, considering where she is, she has enough sense to go by the rules -- even though she'll skirt the edge of protocol at times, she won't attempt to breach it in Jidoor. _

** Background: ** Globally synonymous with the high life, fashion, and excessive sophistication, Jidoor is one of the largest cities, and the leading center of commerce and culture, in the known world. Home to 800,000 people, it is universally renowned for its art institutions, glamorous nightlife, lovely parks, top-rate educational system, and low crime rate. Law enforcement is also quite strict in Jidoor — fashion criminals are occasionally prosecuted for committing such atrocious violations as mismatching one's socks or wearing a plaid garment along with a polka-dotted one.

Class-conscious Jidoor is divided into a district of middle-class neighborhoods to the south home to three-quarters of the city's population; an upper-class region to the north, comprising a fifth; and the central business district in between, which also is home to great cultural institutions, the Jidoor Stock Exchange and the famed Auction House, and the remainder of the citizenry. Trolley lines criss-cross the city, and railroads serve outlying towns and the western provinces of the Kingdom of Figaro.

Not a poor or homeless person can be seen in the streets, because there _ are _ no poor or homeless people here. The reason for this is because they were all forced to leave. The controversial, albeit successful, plan to expel Jidoor's "unsavory characters" involved the levying of unbearably high property taxes which the lower class could not pay and the setting of mortgage rates extremely favorable to the middle and upper classes. Upon eviction by landlords or displacement by gentrification, the city's poor were offered the incentive to live tax-free in the planned city of Zozo to the north, where the Jidoorian government funded large housing projects to accommodate the displaced residents. Zozo and its inhabitants, of course, are another, entirely different story.

Almost every building in Jidoor, whether civic or private, skyscraper or rail terminal, is a masterpiece of architecture, yet the most famous building in the province is well outside the city limits: the world-famous Opera House, Il Scalo, dominating the skyline of an affluent suburb south of the city. Accessible by express railroad from Jidoor and beautifully floodlit on performance nights, it is a massive, richly ornate structure of what we would call the "Second Empire" style, with a heavily protruding cornice below a sweeping, graceful copper dome that covers the main auditorium's vaulted ceiling.

After Kefka Palazzo's rise to power, Jidoor survived the "unzipping" of the world largely intact and with few noticeable scars. The high cost of living prevents an influx of refugees, plus the city fathers funded the construction of several refugee camps nearby, with as decent living conditions as would be possible. However, many citizens have still fled to the safety of the countryside, reducing the city's population from its peak of nearly a million. The surrounding farmlands more or less escaped the blight and decay observed elsewhere, and as such the city's residents still have plenty of food, though now relatively liberal rations are the order of the day. The most reassuring sign of normalcy is that opera performances continue in the south, though thanks to the reshaping of the world's face Il Scalo now stands on an isthmus instead of a peninsula. Stock trading remains normal, auctions still draw crowds, and things have, overall, remained the same. At least, that's the way they seem to the untrained eye.

--------- 

Owzer Barbati, seated comfortably in his private carriage as it pulled away from the Auction House, eagerly turned the ancient bronze pendant over in his hands, admiring every vestige of his prize as the bustle of nighttime Jidoor rolled by his window. A long-ago relic of an ancient cult that worshipped a goddess the artifact was named after, it had fetched little at the auction and he was happy to have it when no one else wanted it. Starlet...that was her name, right? Owzer loved nice things — and the glassy green stone set into it was rare and attractive; the participants in tonight's auction obviously had no taste — but that didn't mean he was an expert in every field. He sighed. All that mattered was that he had gotten what he had come downtown to get, and now he was headed home with his winnings.

Owzer's home was a large, six-gabled villa in the priciest region of Jidoor's uptown district. The masonry snowcap of the large hill it crowned, its large windows and isolated, elevated setting offered beautiful views of the city skyline to the south, and of the Zozo Mountains to the north. The well furnished-warren of rooms in Owzer's residence on the upper floors was linked by a grand staircase in the foyer to his expansive ground-floor gallery, arguably the largest private art collection in the known world. It was well known that a larger collection was kept in storage in the mansion's basement, and Owzer's displays were rotated regularly. After the carriage had rolled into its port and the two Chocobos pulling it unhitched, the master was free to disembark. Impeccably dressed and middle-aged, his slightly thinning blonde hair tied into a dignified ponytail with a silk ribbon, he went into the foyer and placed the newest addition to his collection in between two other, similar pieces of jewelry in a case on the table to the left of the door.

These were relics of the mythological creatures Golem and Zone Seek, whose titular stones were set into matching bracelets. They were, of course, his other winnings from the Auction House. Owzer stepped back a moment to admire his small collection, when he was suddenly captivated by the latest arrival. From what he had had the opportunity to read of this goddess, she was the benefactor of the art of healing in an ancient myth, and she was renowned for her astounding beauty and benign nature; some speculated that she was even an Esper, a being of pure magic from ancient days of song and legend.

_ Such a shame that few know of this astounding figure in mythology,_ the great patron of the arts mused silently. _ If only, some way, somehow, the public could be a bit educated about who she was, what she was, what she looked like. Her story must be told. _

His fingers idly brushing the glossy surface, it was that exact moment when Owzer had a brilliant idea.

--------- 

Two months later...

"You call this a goddess? You painted her like a Zozo Slam Dancer! What a waste of my time!"

"Please, Master Barbati, it's a great likeness of what you wished rendered! I followed your recommendations exactly; perhaps you're just being a bit too hasty in — "

"I _ beg _ your pardon! Do you dare contradict _ me,_ the patron who generously sponsored your obvious lack of talent? That's the last straw! You're fired! Out of my sight _ now!_

"Master Barbati, no, please! Give me a second chance, I'm sure I can do better next time — OOF!" Crunch. "OW!" Punt. "ARGH!" Thud.

So went the exchange within Owzer's art gallery, preceding the moment when Phlegmwad the Fanciful, a renowned artist from Kohlingen, was unceremoniously dumped on the front stoop of the great patron's villa by a strapping manservant, his head having been forced through the framed canvas which his rejected work had been painted on. This statement in neckwear was a major couture _ don't _ in stylish Jidoor, and the fashion police were on him in a heartbeat to slap him with a 500 GP fine and month-long exile from the city for his offense.

Back inside, slumped in a large armchair, bathed in the cheerful light of a lamp he had recently bought downtown, Owzer wrote of the day's events in his journal, as was his custom, as he mused about the talentless artists he had sponsored for a painting of Starlet. He had put out a classified ad in Jidoor's most reputed newspaper and had gotten many responses from the most _ avant garde _ painters in the region. All, despite their prominence in local arts scenes and perhaps because of their patron's impossibly high standards, turned out to be in no way worth his time — "As talented as a bucket," as he described one of his more disappointing prospects. His shining dream of having his own, original painting of Starlet was waning fast. The pendant that sat upon the bureau across from him seemed to pulse with a light of its own, as if the very deity it represented longed to be brought to life on canvas. He sighed in exasperation, just about to accept that there was no one in the world who could recognize his vision, when he heard a knock on the front door.

Several knocks, in fact, drumming out a beat to accompany a constant ringing of his doorbell. Flinching at the base behavior at whoever was on the other side of that door, Owzer nonetheless got up and walked over to open it.

He found himself face-to-face — or more like sternum-to-face — with a small girl of about eleven years of age, wearing a red beret over her blonde curls, a black sweater, and pink harem pants that flared out considerably along the length of her short legs. She stared up at him with a very sour expression, which he returned incredulously, for about five seconds before she barked "Well? You gonna let me in, or have you decided you don't want a painting?"

Owzer blinked confusedly before registering that this vulgar little girl was at his door regarding the portrait he desired. His first thought was to laugh and shut the door, but then he decided, in his sulky state, he needed more amusement than what righteous indignation could provide. Grudgingly — though he couldn't help but let himself be impressed by her behavior in a region as cultured as Jidoor's — he responded, "Um, of course. Come in," though the little girl had already pushed past him into the cavernous foyer.

"All righty, gov'nah," she quipped as she turned to face the man of the house, "I'm Relm Arrowny of Thamasa at your service, responding to your classified ad for a portrait of the goddess Starlet. I walked, rode, sailed and overall traveled my cute little behind off to get here, so I'd like to know the details. What am I working with here? What am I supposed to model this portrait after?"

"Well, uh, namely the same goddess, the one whom I've taken an interest in," Owzer responded, still vexed by the crassness of the child but preferring to ignore it for the sake of being polite in turn. Unsure why and silently considering it a pointless gesture, he nonetheless handed her the pendant from the Auction House for emphasis. "I know it's a bit of an odd request, but I'd heard about the auctioning of this pendant and how it was being considered a sacred relic of Starlet. Few contemporary portraits or works of art depicting her exist, and I want to fix that. I have a good idea of how I want it done, and mind you I don't want her to look tarted-up or unnatural, because I've had artists who have done that before, and the results were — "

"Wow," the girl murmured under her breath. There was some question as to whether she was even listening to a word that her potential employer had been saying. "Owzer, buddy, that ain't any old stone you've got in that pendant. That's a shard of Magicite."

"A what?" Ignoring Relm's blatant interruption, Owzer became intrigued by what she had called the shining rock imbued into the artifact. Signaling for a butler who'd just entered the room to bring drinks, he motioned for the two of them to sit upon two chairs facing a mahogany coffee table a few feet away, making note to carry the Zone Seek and Golem bracelets with him to show them to Relm.

"Magicite," Relm repeated, after they had settled down. The butler returned to serve beverages, a Marandan white wine — a rare vintage indeed, particularly in those dark times — for Owzer and ginger ale for Relm, each with a coaster. "It's the remains of a dead Esper, a magical creature," she continued, in quite a precocious manner, after taking a sip of her refreshment. "Its spirit will bestow its powers if you can commune with it long and hard. There are many Magicite shards throughout the world containing the essences of long-dead Espers; they each have unique powers that their owners can learn for themselves. Here," she said, picking up the Zone Seek bracelet and turning it so that the smooth, glassy surface of the stone faced Owzer. "If you touch the stone and focus really hard, you can see what I mean. You'll experience...something. It's hard to talk about how it feels, but..."

Owzer shrugged and laid a fingertip on the glassy surface, focusing hard on the magic within as Relm instructed. After a moment nothing happened, and he thought himself quite silly and was about to remove his finger. Looking down at the stone, however, he could see images dancing along the surface, strange runes materializing out of the depths of the stone and orbiting his finger, accelerating faster and faster before spiraling in closer, coming in direct contact with his fingertip.

What transpired after that can only be described as otherworldly. In the blink of an eye, at that moment a powerful jolt of unbridled energy pulsed along Owzer's arm. In a moment of both agony and ecstasy, the jolt created a vibrating sensation — much like that one feels after a hard impact upon one's funny bone — as it raced along his electrified synapses to his brain, where the sudden onslaught of a logic long dormant and incomprehensible to mankind broke down the mysteries of the runes; suddenly they made sense, this raw power of magic available for his harnessing, burning its way into his mind. For a brief moment, he knew the secrets of the Esper whose life force lay latent, in an immaterial state of existence somewhere below the temporal surface of the cold stone he had touched. Unable to maintain his composure he jerked his finger back, and though the surge of energy ceased, a bit of the knowledge remained. Perplexed, he turned back to Relm and saw her smiling.

"You see?" she said in response to his bewildered expression. "If you concentrate hard enough, soon you can cast magic on your own. Watch." She set her drink on the table — Owzer winced slightly when he noticed she didn't bother to use the coaster — closed her eyes and muttered a few unintelligible words under her breath, before stretching her hand out, pointing at Owzer's glass of wine, and shouted, "Ice!" Immediately several large cubes of that frozen substance materialized out of thin air and plummeted about eight inches into the crystal goblet, splashing half of the drink out of the glass and onto the table and its owner's face.

"Sorry," Relm shrugged sheepishly as a butler rushed over to Signor Barbati to mop his face and the table. "But that's just some of the things you can do with magic. You can use it to defend yourself, heal wounds, cure sicknesses, and lots of other stuff. But there's more that I can do. Here's why I'm sure I'll do a good job painting Starlet for you."

She whipped out a large paintbrush and walked over to a vase holding an exquisite bouquet of roses. She traced them in the air, and immediately afterward a whole bunch of roses, identical to the ones in the vase, materialized from the outline right next to the vase before disappearing a moment later. "Of course," she said sheepishly, "If I had done it on canvas it woulda stayed there, but you get the idea."

"Oh, my," Owzer whispered. He stood up and walked over to where Relm Arrowny stood with her giant brush, and extended his hand to welcome her into his sponsorship. "You're hired. Feel free to stay in the guest room if you wish. I'll pay you generously when you're done. Oh, and," he added, "I'd like you to teach me how to use magic. Like I said, I have two other pieces of Magicite we can use along with Starlet. I'll pay for that also."

"No need to pay me for the magic lessons," she said with a grin, sweeping the beret from her head with a flourish and bowing low. "Consider it on the house."

"Fabulous! Start whenever you want on either!"

--------- 

Over the next few weeks, much progress was made in both fields. The artistic prodigy Relm was making great progress on the portrait of Starlet as per the instructions and close eye of her patron. Slowly, the voluptuous figure of the brunette, blue-clad goddess took shape on canvas, depicted at the moment that she lovingly passed the knowledge of the healing arts, represented as a luminous orb of golden light in her left hand, down to the lucky penitents whom she had appointed as her first acolytes. In Relm's spare time she devoted herself to teaching Owzer the spells Zone Seek, Golem and Starlet could offer. As it turned out, they were only good for white and gray magic — that is, for healing and passive defense — but Owzer's prowess with them was growing quickly, as was evident from a short test of his skills as prepared by Relm.

"OUCH!" he yelped as she jabbed him in the arm with a palette knife. The resulting wound wasn't serious, but still deep enough to break the skin. Relm fixed a berating gaze on him and leaned back to admire her handiwork.

"Trust me, one day when you fall down the stairs and break your hip, this will all come in handy," she retorted gruffly as she stepped back ten feet to give him a wide berth to practice. "Now remember what I told you about casting the spell. Focus on drawing the pain out of your body, and spreading it out among the living things around us. That's how a Cure spell works; it's not just making pain go away like...well...magic. You know what I mean."

"I can honestly say that I don't. But all right, here goes," Owzer sighed; holding his palm above the wound and concentrating hard on the spell he had learned. The arcane words he chanted under his breath had become second nature now, as he envisioned patching the wound, taking the pain he felt out of his person, and breaking it into indiscernible bits for all to endure. As he muttered, he felt the energy rise within him, mounting with each syllable, culminating in one last surge in power upon which he yelled, "Cure!" Sparks of soothing green light issued from his hand, dispersing in different directions as they came in contact with the knife wound, which instantly closed and ceased to be. Not even a trace of blood remained.

"Good," Relm quipped, wincing slightly as a small portion of Owzer's pain found her briefly. "I think we can step up a little bit. Let's work on your defensive magic." Brandishing the knife once more, she made a threatening motion toward Owzer, holding the sharp instrument aloft in her hand.

"Ack! Safe!" Owzer yelled in response; just before the tip of the knife came in contact with the flesh of his arm, it bent, the rest of the blade crumpling under the barrier Owzer had cast for himself. Not even a scratch was discernible. Owzer and Relm both stared for a moment at the point of contact before the former looked up with an expression of triumph on his face.

"Fira!" Bellowed Relm before a large streak of flame burst from her palm. Owzer responded by casting Shell, surrounding himself with a barrier that completely obstructed the powerful Fire spell, which dissipated in a burst of green light.

"And I've been practicing this spell for the longest time, Relm," he smirked at her. "I'm not sure you even knew I'd taught myself how to cast it. Osmose!" At his command spiraling orbs of purple light coalesced around a surprised Relm, draining her magic power before rebounding backward into Owzer's still-outstretched hand. His body pulsed slightly with light of the same color from the power he'd regained, for the energy he had exhausted from casting his first three spells had been restored at the expense of Relm's energy.

"Cool," Relm said once she got her wind back. "You're obviously getting better. But from what I've felt from the Espers we're working with, I don't think you'll be able to learn black magic, like fire and lightning spells and whatnot. You can still damage the undead — ghosts and stuff — with healing spells."

"That's fine by me," Owzer replied with a sigh as he walked over to the table near the end of the room and sat down to a covered dish of gnocchi his butler had left out for him. "I have no interest in fighting people with these powers."

"Oh come now, boss," Relm quipped slyly as she slid into a seat across the table, where a platter with some fried chicken had been waiting. "Don't tell me that you've never fantasized about using spells of destruction, particularly on people you don't like. I'm sure the thought's crossed your mind often."

"What a vulgar thing to say! I'm a civilized person, Relm; it's beneath me to derive pleasure from causing people harm."

"Even when they deserve it? Think about it, Owzer..." This last sentence was drawn out in an oily, gleeful singsong tone. "Casting a fire spell under the feet of a rival art collector. Freezing shut the mouth of some nagging lawyer or accountant. Beaning a street harasser in the head with a lightning bolt. Or," she giggled, her mirth rising with each thought of vengeful fantasy, "Turning your childhood bully into an imp."

"Never did the thought occur to me until now, when _ you _ entertained these wild and perverse scenarios." His assertive tone still could not conceal a twinge of doubt and amusement in his voice.

"You're lying," she grinned coyly around a mouthful of chicken. "I can just tell. Like it or not, you always seem to let people know exactly how you feel even when you tell them differently."

"If anything, I ought to turn _ you _ into an imp. At the very least you'll grow a bit taller."

"Hey, I thought we'd agreed not to make personal attacks!" Mock righteous indignation from the artistic prodigy.

"Sorry," though his tone betrayed enjoyment at the jab, "but you're still a shorty with a big mouth. You could stand to add a good meter or so. That way, you can grow into your sassy attitude."

"Don't make me come over there, Barbati!" Now she was getting slightly peeved, though thankfully Relm had learned, though such correspondences with Owzer, to take some of what she could dish out.

"What a threat, my dear! The thought of the things you could do to me just makes me cringe. I'm shaking in my boots as we speak!"

"Sarcasm noted, hotshot. But you forget that I'm the only one here who _ knows _ the Imp spell. Plus," she grinned mischievously, "I could paint your portrait."

"Ack! Point taken! The threat alone has convinced me to recant my earlier statements and apologize profusely for my trespasses! Oh, Relm Arrowny, I surrender completely to your supreme whim!" It does not need to be noted that Owzer was exaggerating in the heat of the moment as he playfully groveled, though naturally the threat of one being assaulted by a likeness of him hits home under any circumstance.

"Your offenses are forgiven. Arise, penitent, and sin no more," she chuckled, and the two laughed, resuming their meal in silence save for occasional, light small talk — or when Relm feigned retching after trying some of Owzer's gnocchi.

--------- 

Meanwhile, as artist and patron bonded upstairs, sinister forces were at work in Relm's basement studio. Free from a long imprisonment in the bowels of the earth after Kefka drove the world to chaos, a shadowy entity with no real temporal presence now needed a new home from which to sow its seeds of discord and despair. Drawn by the incredible skill of the young artist's work in progress, it found a suitable abode in the unfinished painting of Starlet, settling in quickly. Taking form on canvas as a dark, shrouded phantom about to engulf the comely goddess in its hideous aura, Chadarnook, the demon of illusion and nightmares, set to work taking the mansion as his own. The demon by nature could occupy only the intangible, that which did not exist temporally, so an unfinished painting would be a medium from which he could also control the tangible.

And so, unbeknownst to the man of the house, his staff, or his guest, Chadarnook extended his vile influence throughout the basement of the house like a poltergeist, seizing control of the lights, the furniture, the doors, and even the paintings. The subjects of Owzer's collection quickly became Chadarnook's puppets: animated, possessed physical beings whose existence was only to serve him. Soldiers, plants, birds, cats, dancers, even old women and treasure chests -- all were able to move, walk, interact — and attack.

--------- 

"It's still going to take some time," Relm remarked as she wiped the sweat off her brow. She had been at work for five hours, trying still to complete the portrait possessed by Chadarnook. Since he still lacked the power to move and act on his own, the theory was that finishing the painting of Starlet would force the demon out in favor of some other unoccupied canvas; thankfully they had already destroyed the spare rolls that were among Relm's art supplies. They now had barricaded themselves in Relm's studio, in the guest room, where the portrait of Starlet, now the abode of Chadarnook, loomed over them both.

"That's not a luxury that we have," a very haggard and exhausted Owzer responded glumly. "That demon's been in there for three days now. He's still dormant after possessing the painting, but that can change any time now. He's cut off the electricity in the basement, his monsters are running amok around my house, and the food in the icebox is running low." Call him shallow if you must, but he also shuddered as he imagined how his beautiful mansion might have been warped to the twisted demon's designs. He and Relm were sometimes attacked by animated portraits — Chadarnook's impromptu gang of thugs — and Owzer himself had dispatched a few of them with an epee he had the sense to take with him from upstairs before he fled to Relm's room. Forced to expand his powers rapidly in the hostile environment, his prowess with magic was growing steadily, particularly his healing spells, which had helped turn the tide of battle several times.

Relm's patron further cringed as he tried to think about remaining in this condition for any longer. Another day, another week...another month? No one could last that long. And why weren't his servants going to get help? "For the gods' sake, Relm!" he finally blurted out. "Our food's almost gone, I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in four days, not to mention a bath, and we can't go out of this room because those damn monsters will jump us the second we cross the threshold! How can you be calm at a time like this, because I can't understand for the life of me!"

"Owzer, bitching about it doesn't help our situation," Relm shot back. "We can't draw Chadarnook out of the painting, so he needs to be forced out." She mixed together some colors on her palette and bodily thrust her brush up to the canvas; though he was still immobile, Chadarnook's aura often pulsed with enough force to repel Relm's efforts to paint over him. "I'm doing the best I can," she grunted through gritted teeth. "With any luck we can have this — "

Loud noises coming from outside the studio startled Relm so much that she lost her balance, and her battle of wills with the demon in the painting. Stumbling backwards, she nearly collided into Owzer before steadying herself, the two listening intently from behind the door. "Someone's fighting some of Chadarnook's goons," Owzer surmised, discerning unintelligible human voices among the sounds of scuffles and spells being cast; just as the art they were derived from had no voice, Chadarnook's abominations were mute. Relm frowned slightly in concentration.

"Those voices sound familiar," she muttered to no one in particular. As if on cue, the voices behind the door became understandable as their owners approached the entrance to Owzer and Relm's room.

"I am almost certain that we haven't looked here yet," the owner of an aristocratic, albeit aged-sounding, masculine voice said first.

"Difficult to say, really," remarked a soft-spoken, almost meditative younger male voice. "This mansion's huge, and we've been searching for hours."

"I've just about had enough with this hellish place," quipped a man who sounded similar to the last, only with more assertiveness and conviction, despite a very noticeable tone of exasperation. "Ill-tempered paintings attacking us, dead-end corridors, false doors...not to mention that it's completely DARK in here! Owzer's architect must have been a deconstructionist."

"Methinks that no human would be so nefarious as to plan such a dungeon," the aristocratic voice rejoined floridly. "Think back to the gossip downtown. By the long period that this mansion has stood silent, and the unexplained absence of the master of the house, many believe this abode to be haunted — nay, possessed — by some ghastly fiend."

"Cyan has a point," a neutral, feminine voice mused, a short while before the sounds of the strangers' feet stopped in front of Relm's studio. "The Jidoorians are known for being knowledgeable and rational, and considering what the last year's been like, they wouldn't have — "

Hearing the name "Cyan" was enough for Relm; she knew who the people in the hall were. Before Owzer could react she had dashed to the door, unlocked and jerked it open. Four familiar pairs of eyes — one blue, two green, one brown — stared down in surprise as she stepped out into the dark corridor. An awkward moment passed — it _ had _ been a year, after all — before Relm grinned sheepishly at her former. "Hey, guys," was all that she could muster.

Celes Chere, Cyan Garamonde, Sabin Rene Figaro and Edgar Roni Figaro were all speechless.

--------- 

A noise, a constant, droning whine of unnatural origins, sounded from within Relm's room before the five Returners could utter a word, followed by the emasculated shriek of the dandy inside. _ "RELM!" _ cried Owzer, as the addressee uttered a word too vulgar to be repeated here and ran back inside, motioning for her comrades to follow her. "I'll explain later," she snapped, reiterating that statement to Owzer as she rushed into the room with four utter strangers. It was then that she noticed the reason for his noteworthy impression of a damsel in distress.

Chadarnook protruded from the surface of the painting entirely in the third dimension, looking more twisted and horrid than he could ever have been represented in just the second. An ethereal, pitch-black mass, his corporal form swelled and billowed like a cloud in tempestuous winds, a pair of "arms" extending from his main "body" and ending in clawlike appendages that reached and grasped.

When he spoke, no mouth was visible. His booming, disembodied voice seemed to echo more within the minds of the six humans before him than it did in the chamber they were inside.

_ "I do hope you're not expecting to oust me from this exquisite painting," _ the demon chuckled condescendingly at his challengers, who each quickly brandished a weapon.

"Stand back for this one, Owzer," Relm ordered through gritted teeth as she wielded her enchanted brush. "We'll take care of everything."

"I refuse to!" retorted the patron of the arts as he drew his epee. "I commissioned that portrait, and I'll be damned if I'm not the one who destroys it, if it must be." He pointed his slender blade at the hovering visage of Chadarnook. "Your arrival here, demon, has since resulted in vandalism of my property, many assaults on my trusted guest and myself, and an affront to the very culture of my city and of my home. Be forewarned that if you do not leave us be now, you'll deserve what you receive next."

--------- 

The demon's rage was less heard than it was felt. Its psychic and corporal link to the mansion caused the very room itself to ripple. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled in the basement studio as Chadarnook's deafening voice resounded in the party's heads.

_ "THE GODDESS IN THIS PAINTING IS _ MINE! _ YOU CAN'T HAVE HER!" _

"You have no right to lay claim to her," Sabin responded calmly, cracking his mithril-bound knuckles as he brandished his metal claws. "Or anything in this house."

_ "Not so long as you fools stand in my way…which you won't for much longer. PHANTASM!" _

The ethereal storm clouds above their heads flashed blindingly, as bolts of lightning lanced down and struck each of Chadarnook's challengers. Owzer winced as the energy dissipated, though the spell did not inflict as much damage as he expected. Then, to his horror, he sensed himself getting slightly weaker with each passing second, as if his very life were slowly draining away…looking around at Relm and her friends, he noticed that they were in the exact same predicament. And then Chadarnook laughed in triumph.

_ "Your life force will continue to ebb away until either I fall or you all die! And I highly doubt that the former will be the end result," _ the demon gloated at the sign of his impending victory as Celes, regaining her repose, stepped forward defiantly.

"Many of those we've faced have had similar lapses in judgment. You won't be the last," she answered as she cast a spell that shot across the room and hit the demon square in the "chest." His figure dimmed slightly, if only for a moment, while Sabin finished a mantra he had been chanting. A brilliant blue healing aura emanated from the powerfully built martial artist as his comrades, once engulfed, felt much of their life force restored to them. Spurred by both these actions, Owzer used his own magic to heal Sabin as best as he could, as the aura had not restored his own energy to him. But the dismaying effects of the dread Phantasm spell were soon felt, and they all felt their vitality diminishing once again.

Cyan, the Doman samurai, then rushed forward with supernatural speed, katana flashing as he attempted to strike the demon; with each slash, however, the blade traveled right through the enemy figure without cutting anything. Physical attacks, apparently, would not harm this ethereal creature. Embarrassed by his lack of usefulness, the brave soldier bade a hasty retreat to the rear of the room.

_ "Perhaps this _ will _ be interesting, then,"_ mused Chadarnook as he recovered from the impact of Celes's attack. The ghastly demon extended his ethereal palm to Owzer, who froze as he desperately wracked his brain to recall the words for the Shell incantation. As Chadarnook mustered his own energy to strike, Owzer finally remembered and began his own chanting. He hoped that since it was obviously a simpler spell, he would be able to finish before Chadarnook and therefore protect himself.

But he was too late. Chadarnook was well ahead of him, particularly because the Phantasm spell once again left Owzer in a much more weakened state. The demon bellowed _ "THUNDAGA!" _ as a giant bolt of lightning, one of immense proportions and voltage, streaked out of its caster's hand and toward its target. Owzer cowered reflexively and shut his eyes just before impact, anticipating the end. Then he felt himself being pushed to the side and rolling as he hit the floor. As he regained his balance and composure, he opened his eyes to find out what had happened — and saw Edgar, his right hand balled into a fist and raised to chest level as the Thundaga spell broke over it like an ocean wave against a jetty. A ring on the young king's finger pulsed with blue light as his violently shaking hand seemed to absorb the impact of the spell, its inertia forcefully pushing Edgar back; Owzer could just make out a bejeweled ornament on the band that resembled a rook from a chess set. A Wall Ring, a relic that could reflect the magic of enemy spellcasters against them.

Unable to hold it much longer, Edgar then opened his fist and turned his hand around, his open palm facing Chadarnook…and the demon's own spell lanced out from it and struck him violently in the "face." The shock and power of the reflected spell threw Chadarnook in a fit of pain and rage that was enough of a window of opportunity for Relm to finally strike. Having been preparing to cast a spell from the beginning of the battle, she now summoned as much energy as she had left, stretching both her hands out in front of her as she bellowed "FIRAGA!" at the top of her voice. Twin streaks of enchanted fire issued forth from her and found their way to Chadarnook, striking with incredible intensity and heat that was too much for the demon to bear. Eliciting one last shriek of rage that issued in their heads long after the sound itself had faded, Chadarnook was unmade: much like mist evaporates as it meets a flame, or as darkness disappears with the gradual introduction of light, the demon of illusions and despair seemed to dissolve as he faded away, and then simply ceased to be.

At that same moment, the lights went back on, and the effects of Phantasm spell were lifted, those effected no longer feeling themselves losing their strength slowly but surely. Still feeling quite weak, but also very proud of herself for having saved the day, Relm looked up into the relieved faces of her fellow Returners and asked the only thing that could really come to mind.

"So what've I you /I been up to lately?"

--------- 

"So that demon possessed that portrait there, which you had commissioned Relm to paint," Celes summarized after Relm and Owzer had finished telling the whole story behind the preceding events. Owzer, collapsed on a couch, looked up at her and nodded.

"Yes, essentially. I had been inspired to have a painting done of Starlet after I bought this pendant at the Auction House," he answered, holding aloft the object in question. "Magicite, I know," he said knowingly, noticing the shocked expressions of Celes, Cyan, and the Figaro twins. "And your friend Relm here has been painting for me for several weeks now. She's taught me much, and by that I mean both Relm and Starlet." Relm, standing with the other Returners, beamed at this. "I have two more pieces where that came from," Owzer added, holding aloft the bracelets containing the stones of ZoneSeek and Golem. "Since I don't intend on going off on any adventures just yet, I see no harm in giving them to you. I hope they'll be useful." He handed all three pieces of jewelry over to Sabin, who had been standing nearest to him and accepted the gifts with a gesture of gratitude.

"So I guess that's it, then," Owzer concluded. "I just wish that there was more that I could do for you to help in your quest to overthrow that Palazzo character. At the very least, feel free to look through my collections and library and see if you can find any relics that would aid you, or knowledge to light your way. And here," he added, producing a checkbook that he had brought with him to Relm's studio redoubt when Chadarnook took over the mansion and taking out two checks. He signed both and filled out an amount for one, giving that to Relm and the blank to Celes. "If you ever need money for whatever reason, go to any bank, fill out the amount that you need, and cash that. It's the least I can do." Edgar shook his head dismissively.

"This is more than enough, Signor Barbati. Thank you." Owzer nodded in acknowledgement.

"Well, I don't want to keep you from your noble adventure," he said only half-jokingly. "Go on, get. And good luck! If you ever come to Jidoor again, even after you've restored balance to the world, you and your friends can stay for as long as you like." Cyan bowed.

"Many thanks for your kindness, benevolent patron. Fare thee well," he said graciously as they turned to leave. Relm lingered behind for a bit, and was about to open her mouth before Owzer stood up and gestured her to be silent.

"I know, I know," he chuckled. "You're going with them. That's fine by me. The portrait isn't as important as saving the world."

"Don't worry, Owzer. I'll come back to finish it once we've finished with Kefka." Owzer crossed over and ruffled her hair in a paternal manner, in that special, loving way that a father does to his daughter.

"I'll be waiting," he said kindly. Relm hugged him once and then ran off to join the others; with Chadarnook destroyed, there was no longer a fear of his minions prowling the halls outside.

Owzer crossed back over to the couch and sat there, admiring the only half-finished painting that Relm had left. The spot where that vile demon once was was now simply a blank Chadarnook-shaped spot of unpainted canvas. The room was still in transition back to its normal shape and size after Chadarnook's presence had warped it. It might have been a trick of the light, or a factor of the room still changing back to normal, but he could have sworn that the figure of Starlet in the painting looked down on him, if only for a brief second, and smiled before turning back and becoming immobile once again.

FIN

--------- 

I TLOZ's post-FIN notes/I Okay, so after a long absence, I am finally done with the second (and not the last) installment of this anthology. If there's anyone else still reading this, then I guess I might as well explain certain things you might take issue with about the fic.

First off: If there are any opera lovers reading this, I'm certain that you might have recognized that I named the Opera House "Il Scalo." For those of you not in the know, this is a masculine take on La Scala, the great opera house in Milan that is arguably the most famous and beloved in the world. Many great careers have been made or broken at La Scala, and many of the most famous operas in the world have debuted there. When it was destroyed in an Allied air raid during World War II, it was the first great public building in the city that the Milanese rebuilt, exactly as it had been before the war. So the FF6 Opera House is envisioned as one of many such venues, but it is the most important in the world and is named in homage to one of our own in my fic.

Owzer using magic: I can't see why this isn't plausible. If he bought Starlet at the Auction House, then I see no reason why he couldn't have won ZoneSeek and Golem as well and tried to harness their powers. To me it stands to reason. And obviously blabbermouth Relm, a magic-user by means of Magicite, might have let slip one thing or another about casting spells while she was working for Owzer. Why wouldn't he have gotten curious?

The final battle: I wanted to keep this as short and sweet as possible, so as not to interfere with the flow of the story. Thus, every party member (which includes Relm and Owzer, who certainly wouldn't have just stood there and done nothing as they did in the game) got to attack only once, and Chadarnook barely did at all. To compensate for this, I deliberately increased the significance and power of his Phantasm spell, to signify that he more likely just needed to wait for his enemies to weaken instead of just expending all his energy trying to knock them down forcefully. As a master of illusion and terror, this nefarious fighting style seemed more to be in his character.

Due to the aforementioned time constraints, Chadarnook also did not transform into his invincible "lady" form, as he could in the game. I also thought this went against logic: if Chadarnook was invincible when he changed his form, why didn't he just stay that way all the time? That whole battle in the game seemed to me to just be an example of employing strategy and patience to win, which goes against the logic of the real world, and would have made the story impossibly long as a result. There shouldn't be any video game-type puzzles to solve while you're fighting to the death in real life. So Lady Chadarnook was out.

If you disagree, then feel free to say so in your review. I welcome criticism, but not flames. Keep in mind the difference.

And that's it for now. See you next time!


End file.
